by Hilary Green
I turn over and make a determined effort to get to sleep. But as I drift off, a small voice somewhere murmurs, ‘First your dad, then Paul. Now Karim. What’s wrong with you?’
The next morning I make a last visit to Lapta, to say goodbye to the Wentworths. They are solicitous, commenting that I look tired and joking that I have been enjoying the nightlife too much and need to go home for a rest. I do not disillusion them. Os promises to pursue his enquiries about my father with other ex-pats and I give him my address in London.
As we part Meg says, ‘I’m sure you’ll be back one day. This island casts a spell on people, you know. And when you come back, you must promise to come and visit us again.’
I promise and say goodbye. Then I have a last wander around the village, hoping that it might awaken some further memories, but it seems that the curtain between me and the past, which briefly became transparent like the painted gauze in a pantomime, has now resumed its illusion of solidity and I cannot see beyond it.
I spend the afternoon packing and then lie down for a while before getting ready to meet Karim. The feeling of exhaustion, which this holiday was supposed to cure, has grown worse with every passing day, and is now so acute that I am almost tempted to call him and cancel the arrangement. Only the thought that I will never see him again if I do forces me out of bed and into the shower. My hand shakes as I apply my make-up and the dark rings under my eyes are stronger than ever.
I know from his expression when he picks me up that I have not succeeded in concealing how ill I feel but he makes no comment. He takes me to the tiny Turkish restaurant again and, under the influence of food and wine, I manage to put on a show of vivacity. Underneath I could weep with frustration. This is not me! What has happened to all my natural joie de vivre? No wonder he doesn’t want to spend time with such a wet blanket!
All through the meal I keep hoping that he will make some reference to a possible future meeting, or at least ask for my address, but he says nothing and my pride will not let me be the first to raise the subject. In England I would have been quite brazen about it – might even have suggested that he come back to the hotel with me, if I could raise the energy – but instinct tells me that to make such a proposition to Karim would be to kill any faint hope that still exists. When the meal is over I am not sorry that, instead of suggesting that we go on somewhere for coffee, he drives me straight back to the hotel.
He stops the car a short distance from the main entrance and for a moment we sit in silence. Then he says, ‘What time is your flight tomorrow?’
‘Just after ten. We’re being collected from the hotel at seven.’
‘You’ll need an early night, then.’
Silence again. I contemplate asking him in for a coffee but know that he would refuse. At length I say, ‘Well, thank you again for all your help. You’ve been very kind.’
‘Not at all.’ The response sounds automatic. ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t fill in all the details.’
‘I suppose this is goodbye, then.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ He turns suddenly towards me and for a moment I think he is going to kiss me but he only lays a hand on my wrist.
‘Cressida, promise me that you will see a doctor as soon as you get back. And don’t let them fob you off with platitudes about taking it easy and having a glass of wine with your meals. Make them do all the necessary tests.’
‘Tests?’ I try to read his expression in the half darkness. Then, as if he has thrown me into icy water, I understand. For a moment I cannot speak. ‘You think…? My God, is that what you think? Is that what you’re afraid of?’ Fury, sheer unreasoning rage, sweeps over me ‘You think I’m some sort of slut who picks men up off the street! Do you really imagine I’m such a fool? That I haven’t got the sense to take precautions? And you haven’t got the guts to come right out with it and tell me what you’re thinking. You bastard!’
I scramble out of the car and run to the hotel entrance. Then I stop and look back. He has got out of the car and taken a few steps, as if he intended to follow me, but now he stands immobile, gazing in my direction but making no attempt to come to me. I plunge through the doors into the foyer, choking back sobs, and sink, shivering, onto the nearest chair.
Next day I go through the formalities of checking out of the hotel and checking in for my flight like an automaton. I keep telling myself that I shall be all right once I get home. It’s this island! It captures your senses and your imagination and twists them. The magic of the lotus is dangerous and must be resisted.
As the plane banks over the parched landscape of the Mesaoria, I look down and my thoughts return to the girl whose memory lured my father back. Who was she? What was her story?
PART FOUR
LONDON, 1998
CHAPTER 15
‘Come in, please, Miss Allenby. Take a seat.’
Dr Prentiss, the consultant, is a slender, fragile-looking woman, with blonde hair fading to ash-grey and a fine-boned, sensitive face. I glance round the room. A nurse is sitting to one side. She smiles at me but does not speak. I find her silent presence unnerving but the consultant makes no attempt to explain it. Instead she closes the buff folder on the desk in front of her and folds her hands on top of it. Her eyes seek mine.
‘Miss Allenby …’
‘Please, call me Cressida.’ The response is automatic. My heart is beating so hard that it is difficult to concentrate.
‘Thank you. I’m afraid the news is not good, Cressida. The tests show that you are suffering from chronic granulocytic leukaemia.’
‘Leukaemia?’ I feel an overpowering rush of relief. ‘Then it’s not … not…?’
‘Not what?’
‘I thought … I thought it might be something else.’
‘Such as?’
‘No, it doesn’t matter. Sorry! Please go on.’
Dr Prentiss leans forward.
‘You do realize how serious this diagnosis is? This form of leukaemia does not progress as rapidly as more acute forms but you appear to be in what we term the accelerated stage, which means that urgent action is required.’
The words hit me as if I have crashed into a brick wall. ‘Are you telling me I’m going to die?’
‘No, I’m not saying that. There are treatments – of course there are. But we do have a battle on our hands and there’s no point in pretending otherwise.’
‘It’s a kind of cancer, isn’t it? Does that mean radiotherapy?’
‘Not initially. We will start you straightaway with a blood transfusion and that will be followed by a course of chemotherapy, which should bring about a temporary remission, but your best hope of a cure is a bone marrow transplant. Do you have any brothers or sisters?’
‘No, I’m an only child.’
‘Pity. How about your parents?’
‘They’re both dead.’
‘Cousins, aunts, uncles?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. Both my parents were only children too. That is –’ I stop abruptly, remembering that entry in my mother’s journal. ‘Well, I don’t really know about my father. He was adopted, you see. I suppose he may have had brothers or sisters but I’ve no idea.’
‘He never contacted his birth mother?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Are his adoptive parents still living?’
‘I don’t know. I never met them. I think he must have quarrelled with them before I was born.’
‘It might be possible to trace his birth mother. I know adopted children can do that now. I’m not sure whether that applies to the next generation. I really think it would be worth your while to try.’
‘And if I can’t find anyone?’
‘We can put your name on the Anthony Nolan Register. That’s a register that tries to find donors who match up with leukaemia sufferers. There’s a chance that we might come up with a match for you.’
‘How much of a chance?’
‘A fairly slim one, if I’m honest.’
&nbs
p; ‘And if that fails?’
‘Then we must rely on the chemotherapy. If we can revert the condition to the chronic stage it would give us more time to find a suitable donor.’
The doctor pauses and I sit staring at the buff folder. Suddenly I am desperately thirsty. Ever since I got back from Cyprus I have been trying to convince myself that my weakness is due to some simple deficiency and my GP has encouraged me in that thought. ‘Best to get the tests done, just to be sure, but I’m sure it’ll turn out to be something quite minor.’ Now, from the mouth of this gentle-looking woman, has come a sentence of death.
Dr Prentiss says gently, ‘You’re not married, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Boyfriend? Partner?’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘That’s a pity. You will need all the support you can get over the next few months. And you have no children?’
‘No.’
‘Well, perhaps this is irrelevant, in the circumstances, but I have to warn you that the chemotherapy will almost certainly render you infertile – for a time, at least. Under certain circumstances it is possible to harvest eggs and freeze them but that is a long process and I’m afraid in your case we don’t have the time. It’s possible that you will never be able to have children.’
I look back at her mutely. I want to say, ‘That isn’t going to bother me if I’m dead, is it?’, but I don’t.
From that moment I have the sensation that my voice and actions have been taken over by some alien robot. This other self answers questions and listens as the doctor outlines a course of treatment. When I am handed into the charge of the nurse it smiles in a reflex response to her professional cheeriness. Meanwhile, the real I, naked and exposed as a snail dragged out of its shell, huddles howling somewhere within the robot’s unfeeling form.
‘Do you live alone?’ the nurse asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Is there someone who would come and stay with you – a relative or a friend, perhaps?’
‘No, not that I can think of.’
‘You really shouldn’t be on your own, you know.’
‘No. I’ll – I’ll think of someone.’
Back at my flat, I drop into a chair and sit for a long time staring at the wall. The nurse’s words come back to me. ‘You shouldn’t be on your own …’ ‘No, I shouldn’t!’ I almost shout the words aloud. ‘There should be somebody. Why am I all alone?’ Karim’s face floats in my imagination. I hear his voice, sometimes amused and ironic, on other occasions passionately enthusiastic. Damn him! At least this sickness isn’t what he thought it was.
I try to think of other contacts. I could pick up the telephone and call Paul. But Paul has Julie now. Paul left me for Julie because I put caring for my dying mother before having fun with him. So why now would he want to leave Julie to care for me while I am dying? Guilty conscience? Pity? God, no! I would rather suffer alone to the end than call Paul.
I think of friends from work. I always thought of myself as the gregarious type. A month ago, if I had been asked if I had many friends, I would have replied with an unhesitating yes. Now I’m not so sure. The connection feels fragile, superficial. I was away from school on compassionate leave for a week after my mother died and when I came back there were only a few days of term left. They pretended to understand when I pulled out of the holiday to Corfu, and I did find someone else to take my place, but it must have seemed like a slap in the face that I preferred my own company to being with them. I couldn’t explain, even to myself, why I needed to be alone. They are a nice crowd but I can’t imagine any of them wanting to cope with what is happening to me. There is bubbly Lisa, always good for a laugh, and clever, determined Sue with one eye on the next step up the promotion ladder. But Lisa was reduced to helpless tears by the death of her cat and Sue has never been one to suffer the infirmities of others with patience. There is Angie, of course. She is always sympathetic to anyone in trouble. I try to imagine myself telling them my news. How would they react? They would be supportive, of course. Lisa would hug me and cry; Sue would get on the net and come up with a list of organizations that might provide help or advice. Angie would fuss over me, buy me flowers, offer to do my shopping. But how long would it be before I became a nuisance to them? I picture myself growing increasingly dependent, increasingly demanding, and the idea revolts me. I am used to thinking of myself as a strong, attractive personality – and soon I shall be weak and ugly. I make up my mind to conceal my illness from them to the last possible moment.
I find I am gazing at the window. The late afternoon sun slanting through the glass shows up smears and dusty patches and the bunch of flowers which I picked up on impulse in the supermarket yesterday looks tawdry and garish against the murk. There is a pile of papers on the table – mock exam scripts that need to be marked before the start of the new term. I haven’t even looked at them and there are only a few days of the holiday left.
I get up and go over to the table, pull out a chair and take the first paper from the pile. For a few minutes I force my eyes to follow the words on the page but I cannot make them mean anything. The sun through the dirty windowpane annoys me. I leave the papers and go into the kitchen. The cupboard under the sink is a jumble of washing powder and cleaning products and I drag them out, swearing, until I find the spray for cleaning the glass. I take it to the window, climb onto a chair and begin to polish. The physical effort makes me feel sick. The bottle of spray slips from my fingers and when I make an automatic grab for it my arm catches the vase of flowers and sends it crashing to the floor. I stand on the chair, staring down at the spreading puddle. Somebody, somewhere is producing a high-pitched, animal whine. It takes several seconds to realize that it is my own voice. It dawns on me that I will not be going back to school next term. I throw myself off the chair, seize the pile of papers and rip the top sheet into pieces, throwing the torn remnants into the water. Then I am suddenly aware of what I am doing and collapse on the floor and give way for the first time to sobs that shake my body and flay my throat until it is raw.
When I eventually calm down, I boot up my laptop and type a letter to the head master, explaining the situation and enclosing the medical certificate from the hospital. I ask him to keep the information confidential.
When I am admitted to St Thomas’s Hospital two days later, I am given a blood transfusion, which makes me feel better than I have done for some time. Then comes the first shock. The registrar comes to my bedside.
‘Cressida, you are going to need repeated intravenous injections of the chemotherapy drug. You don’t want to go through the painful business of having a canula inserted every time, so I suggest we put in a Hickman line. That’s a tube inserted into a vein in your chest, so that the drug can be administered directly into it.’
‘You mean I’ll have a permanent tube sticking out of my chest?’
‘For a while. It can be removed when the course of treatment is finished.’
The idea of this disfiguring invasion of my body makes me feel sick. My only comfort is the thought that at least there is no one else who need be revolted by the sight.
When I get back to the flat after three weeks of intensive treatment, the light on the answering machine is blinking non-stop.
‘Cressida, it’s Sue. The head says you’re off sick and not expected back for some time. What’s wrong? Do get in touch!’ ‘Cress? Lisa here. Why don’t you answer the phone? Call me as soon as you get this.’ ‘Cressida? It’s Tom Westwood here. I don’t know if you remember, we met at Jane’s party a couple of months ago. I know you’ve been away but I guess you must be home by now. Could we have a drink, or dinner, perhaps?’ ‘Cressy, it’s Angie. We’re all really worried about you. Please get in touch.’
I hit the delete button and go through to my bedroom. I feel sick and more exhausted than I ever imagined possible. Later, after a rest, I record a new message for the machine.
‘Hello. It’s Cressida here. I’m afraid I’m not avai
lable at the moment. I’m going to be out of town for a week or two so I won’t be picking up messages. Leave your name and number and I’ll call when I get back.’
There is a letter from the head telling me not to worry about anything at school. They have got a supply teacher in who is ‘very well qualified and obviously very keen’ so I need have no anxiety about my classes. So much for any idea I may have had about being irreplaceable! Actually, it occurs to me that I have hardly given a thought to the matter since my diagnosis.
My life contracts to a basic routine: the fortnightly visit to the hospital, the plunge into nausea and exhaustion, then the slow, painful recovery to something approaching normality before the next injection. In between I try to read or listen to music but I can’t concentrate. My mind, like a hamster on a wheel, revolves round and round the one question. Why me? I tell myself rationally that there is no reason. These things happen to people. I have no belief in God or fate or any other external influence with the power to decide the course of human lives. The staff at the hospital are relentlessly upbeat but they make no secret of the fact that, even if the chemo succeeds in reverting my condition to chronic rather than acute, statistically there is a one in three chance of the acute phase recurring. I am not afraid of what might happen in the afterlife. There is no such thing. Soon I shall be extinguished, like a torch whose battery has run out, and that will be that. What troubles me most is the thought that I shall leave nothing behind except a memory in the minds of a few friends, which will soon fade. I have created nothing. What is the point of my existence?
This attitude alternates with days when life seems infinitely precious and every extra day is a bonus to be cherished, but I do not have the strength to take full advantage of these highs.
Then one day, coming back to the flat from the hospital, I find a letter on the mat bearing a Turkish Cypriot stamp.
My dear Cressida,
I hope you will forgive me for writing to you. You did not leave me your address so I presume you were not expecting to keep in contact but I think I have some news that you would wish to receive. I asked the Wentworths and when I told them the reason they agreed that I ought to write to you.
